


burning out his fuse (up here alone)

by meingottlieb



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Depression, Donald Duck Needs a Hug, Guilt, Healing, Jose and Panchito find out Donald was missing, M/M, Multi, Protective Boyfriends, addresses significant trauma, legitimate family feels, mild panic attacks, ngl there's some angst here, post-Moonvasion, the duck-mcduck clan gets roasted, things go poorly (TM), this won't be all sad i promise but things need to be SAID
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2020-10-21 16:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20696225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meingottlieb/pseuds/meingottlieb
Summary: “Uncle Donald was accidentally launched to the moon in Mom’s ship!” Dewey exclaims.“And captured by aliens!” Huey chimes in, lifting his arms.“Then he crashed back on Earth and was stranded on a desert island for like, weeks,” Louie finishes, and his dry tone hits a roadblock as he looks up to see the expressions on Panchito and José’s faces.“Mãe do céu,”José breathes, his face blanched beneath green down.“Captured?” Panchito says, horrified.“Stranded?"





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> look....i liked the season finale, but i need more donald love and care, goddammit. he gets captured and stranded on an island for ages and he's only given a few seconds on screen to play knock off Tom Hanks, process his sister's alive and that they didn't try to let him KNOW, realize the world's under attack, and to learn that nobody knew he was missing until they found him on that damn island???????? that doesn't fly with me, sorry, i need catharsis for donald, and i need it yesterday so i wrote....this. enjoy.

**burning out his fuse (up here alone)**

_chapter one_

“Hey, where’s Uncle Donald?”

It’s lunch time, and there’s a seat empty at the broad dining table. Donald’s old seat at the other head of the table across from Scrooge is now occupied by Della, but the new seat, situated strategically between Louie and Huey, is notably vacant, and made more apparent by the meal in front of them (homemade pizza, with dough made from scratch, Donald’s favorite).

“I dunno,” Dewey answers, mouth already half-full with pizza. Louie frowns over his plate as Huey eyes their ill-mannered brother with repulsion. “Maybe he’s just late?”

“He didn’t come to breakfast this morning,” Webby says, her knife pausing in its careful cutting of a slice of veggie lovers.

“He didn’t?” Louie says, putting down his cell phone by his plate. At his side, Scrooge’s eyebrow comes up from over his newspaper (loud headline, _ Duckburg Reconstruction Underway: McDuck Estate Grants Aid). _ “But Uncle Donald loves to eat?”

“Donald used to beat me to breakfast every morning,” Della says, voice fond. “I preferred to sleep in, but Donnie was always early to bed, early to rise.” Her nostalgia fades into muted concern as her eyebrows come together. “I hope he’s not sick. That was about the only time his appetite ever waned when we were kids.”

“I _ hope _ not,” Dewey groans. “The last time Uncle Donald was sick, he wouldn’t go to the doctor for _ weeks. _ He had the flu and kept insisting it was a cold, because he had work, even though he was so stuffed up even _ we _didn’t know what he was saying sometimes. He ended up passing out at work and we had to get off the school bus at the hospital.”

Della blinks rapidly in surprise, and Scrooge fully drops his paper into his lap at this, both eyebrows up. “If that stubborn fool is sick, the lot of you should check on him,” he says, voice clipped. “He needs to eat whether or not his stomach says he ought to.”

“He came to dinner last night,” Huey recalls. “Maybe he caught a bug or something after?”

“But he was pretty quiet at dinner,” Webby says. "Maybe he didn't feel good, or his throat was sore.”

“Like _ that _ would stop Uncle Donald from talking,” Dewey says, before tipping his head and making a pondering noise. “But....he _ was _weirdly quiet, even when I spilled that hot soup on his lap. He only yelled for like, twenty seconds, and his record is five days.”

“Average time, four hours and thirty minutes,” Huey supplies, wincing.

“Uncle Donald _ has _been less...Uncle Donald recently,” Louie says slowly, brow furrowed. His frown becomes more pronounced as he stares at the tablecloth, and his brothers exchange looks before turning askance to their mother. 

“Maybe he is feeling a little under the weather,” Della concurs, but seeing her children’s worried faces, she lifts her hands. “But don’t worry, kids. Donald used to go to his room and think for hours when were young after a big adventure. I’d say he’s entitled to cool down after a moon invasion and months in space and on desert islands, huh?”

Across the table, Scrooge presses his beak together and says nothing. The boys look uncomfortable at the reminder of their uncle’s situation for the last few months, but eventually nod in agreement, Huey promising to bring Donald ginger ale after he finished eating. Webby fixes her gaze on her pizza, eyes narrow with thought, and the resulting silence is eventually filled by scraping and munching as lunch resumes.

Minutes pass, and as they’re clearing up, the mansion’s cavernous doorbell rings, echoing above their heads.

“I’ll get it!” Webby, Huey, and Della all say in unison. (Dewey does too, but with a mouth full of pizza crust, and Scrooge wacks the table with his cane chidingly when the boy tries to get up and leave the table without having swallowed first.) Della smiles as she walks behind the racing Huey and Webby hurtling for the door, laughing as they run straight through Duckworth, who tutts and vanishes at their antics.

Webby reaches the massive oak door first, tugging hard, and the door swings open. Della freezes as she sees who is behind it, making the trailing Louie stumble into her back.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. In the doorway, two colorful birds smile down at the children who gasp and say their names, and she watches as together they look up, see her, and stare.

“_Panchito?” _she says, disbelieving. “José?”

“_Della?” _they whisper, stunned, and together, they dash forward. Della’s mouth twists into a radiant smile and she breaks into a run, meeting them halfway as Panchito catches her around the waist and swings her around into José’s crushing embrace.

“You guys!” she cries, ecstatic. “It’s been so long—”

“You’re _ alive!” _Panchito crows. His dark eyes are shining with unshed tears, and beside him, the green macaw with his arms around her shoulders has a matching pair of glittering yellow eyes.

“_Meu Deus,_” José is saying, “We had no idea—”

“How are you _ here— _”

“When did you come home?!”

“_Where _ have you _ been?” _

“I just got back,” she says quickly, laughing at their rapid-fire questions and squeezing them both tight. “Long story short, I was on the moon. I landed back home a few months ago.”

“Amazing,” Panchito says, breathless. “We hoped for so long you would return—”

“And now you’re here,” José finishes, voice thick with emotion. “_É um milagre.” _ He lifts an emerald hand to cup her face. “We missed you, _ minha irmã.” _

Della’s eyes sting at the old nickname. “I missed you too.”

“I can’t believe Donald didn’t tell us!” Panchito exclaims. “I’m going to strangle that duck, keeping us in the dark like this—”

“_Chito,” _ José says chidingly, smiling. “We came here to _ apologize _ for going dark in Montevideo. Maybe he _ did."_

“Well,” Louie pipes up wryly from Della’s elbow. “Probably not, because Uncle Donald didn’t know either.”

“Eh? _¿Por que?” _ Chito asks, voice confused as he reaches forward to say hello to the teenager with a brush of his fingers through Louie’s carefully styled hair.

“Uncle Donald was accidentally launched to the moon in Mom’s ship!” Dewey exclaims.

“And captured by aliens!” Huey chimes in, lifting his arms.

“Then he crashed back on Earth and was stranded on a desert island for like, weeks,” Louie finishes, and his dry tone hits a roadblock as he looks up to see the expressions on Panchito and José’s faces.

_ “Mãe do céu,” _ José breathes, his face blanched beneath green down.

“Captured?” Panchito says, horrified. “_Stranded? _ Is he alright? Where is he?! _ ” _He whips his head around as if Donald were hidden somewhere in the room, and his wide-eyed gaze lands on José. “I knew something was wrong when we didn’t hear from him!” José reaches for the rooster’s hand, squeezing reassuringly as Chito’s voice cracks, but he doesn’t look any measure more composed.

“Weeks, you said?” José asks, pained. “_Caramba. _ If we’d known, we would have come up to help, black _ bruxo _ or no. Why didn’t Scrooge contact us? He had our location!”

The stricken looks on the birds’ faces has Della and the children oddly shaken. “We...” Della breaks off, and sighs. “We didn’t know.”

“You didn’t _ know?"_ Panchito echoes, uncomprehending. “Didn’t know how to reach us?”

“That Uncle Donald was missing!” Louie blurts, and Dewey, Webby, and Huey all flinch. Slow shame spills across Della’s face at the disbelief that hits the men in front of her.

“Didn’t know...” José starts, eyebrows an emerald mountain range beneath the brim of his straw hat.

“_No entiendo,_” Panchito mutters, eyes squinting, and louder says, “I thought you said Donald was missing for a long time?”

“He...was,” Della says. They blankly stare at her.

“We thought he was on a cruise!” Huey says, anxiety spiraling in his voice. 

“For weeks?” José echoes quietly, shaking his head in slow confusion, and something breaks apart on his face, and then he’s backing away. Panchito follows him, stepping back, an unreadable, serious expression on his face.

“_No puedo, _ I don’t—” Panchito jerks his head once, red feathers stiff. “_¿Donde está su tío, niños, _ where is—"

“The houseboat is in the back, in the pool,” Webby volunteers, without her usual confidence. Immediately, Panchito hooks his elbow around his partner and the two of them charge off through the mansion halls.

“Guys, wait,” Della protests, their expressions lingering like nausea in her stomach. “Hey, wait up!” She hustles after them, four uncertain children in tow, and they hear Scrooge squawk as their guests steamroll through the dining room.

“What are you two doin’ here?” Scrooge asks, surprised.

“Where’s Donald?” Chito asks flatly, without a drop of his normal joviality, and Scrooge is visibly taken aback.

“The lad’s...out back,” Scrooge says, blinking. His chair screeches against the floor as he quickly stands, eyes narrowing on the severe expressions directed his way. Panchito and José don’t bother to wait or exchange hellos, and instead heave off towards the wall of glass screen doors separating the dining room and the outdoor patio. Speechless, Scrooge, Della, and the kids follow, only to stop and watch from the open screen door.

“Donal’!” José cries, marching outside towards the houseboat floating solemnly in the manor’s herculean pool. “_Donal’!” _

A white-feathered head pops out of the houseboat’s short, round window. 

“Wha- _ guys?” _

* * *

Panchito watches as shock ripples across Donald’s face, stretching tired eyes wide. There are dark circles beneath the duck’s eyes, bruised and purple, and even the shock in Donald's voice is muted, his beloved voice hoarse as though from misuse. _ Oh, mi amor, _ Panchito thinks, squeezing José’s arm in heartache. He feels mad with it, sick— Donald, missing. Imprisoned. Stranded, possibly for _months_, and they had never known. He wants to scream, and Della— _ returned— _her explanation and shame is still ringing in his ears, unheard, without sense. 

“Donal’!” José shouts again, the volume of his partner’s voice betraying his distress, and Donald visibly jerks in the window.

“I’m coming!” There’s a series of thumps and the distant sound of something glass shattering as Donald whips out of sight and presumably rushes down. Panchito turns his head, eyes pleading, and José nods; Panchito lets go of José’s arm and runs.

“_Cariño!” _ he cries. He meets Donald halfway on the deck, taking the duck in his arms and crushing him tight. He’s _ thin, _Chito thinks, agonized. His bones feel brittle beneath their feathers. “Donald,” he breathes, voice thick. “We just heard—we didn’t know—” 

José’s voice cuts over Chito’s panicked mumbling in Donald’s ear. “_Meu amor,_” the macaw says lowly. “Bring him here.”

“Wha—” Donald blinks rapidly and squawks when he’s dragged firmly but gently to José, who takes him tightly in his arms and buries his beak into the duck’s neck.

“_Donal’,” _he says, voice stolen by emotion. He leans inches back, hands moving up to cradle the duck’s face, fingers carding through thin white down. “Are you alright?”

The confusion and surprise on Donald’s face washes away into something more fragile. “I’m—I’m okay. I can't believe you're here. I...I'm glad to see you guys,” he says, and swallows hard. “...How did you find out?”

“From your _ sister!” _ Panchito yells, at half his normal volume, because he doesn’t want to yell when Donald looks like he would fall over if not for their arms around him. “_Who is alive! Santo cielo, _ Donald!” He wacks the duck lightly on the shoulder, eyes stinging. “We should have heard it from you first, _ idiota.” _His attempt at a chuckle is paltry.

Donald sighs, looking more exhausted than Panchito has seen him in years. “I’m sorry. I should have...when I got back to Duckburg, I should have...”

“It doesn’t matter now,” José says, hushed, calming hands dropping to Donald’s shoulders. “What matters is that you’re _ safe. _ Donal’..." His face briefly crumples, echoing the pain in Chito's heart. "_Sentimos muito.” _

“We would have come in a heartbeat if we’d known,” Panchito says. “We came today to apologize for not keeping in touch because of our work, but we have..._so _much more to apologize for.” He feels his voice break, and Donald is reaching for him. The duck's touch is grounding, and so, so welcome but doesn't erase his heartache.

“It’s not your fault—”

“_M__onths,_” Panchito chokes out, tears welling up as he's buried in Donald's shoulder. “You were lost to us for months, and we didn’t even _ know.” _

Donald pulls back, expression wracked with pain. “Chito,” he says, the name nearly indistinguishable. He shakes his head once. “_Nobody _knew.”

“How can that be?” José hisses, with uncharacteristic sharpness. “It is what they said but we do not understand it. We were radio silent hunting dark magic and trapped for two weeks in the _ Dark Ether,_ and even we realized it’d been too long since we heard from you, which is why we are here!”

"I..." Donald shakes his head. He looks wrecked, pale, rumpled and distraught. "I...I guess...nobody noticed, I..." The duck's voice cuts off as if strangled, and his eyes fly upwards. He freezes looking over Jose's shoulder, and Panchito turns to see McDuck, Della, and the children staring with mixed expressions of pain and shame.

"Let's talk about this inside," Jose suggests. "Come, _ meu amor." _He reaches out to take Donald's hand, and pulls gently. Donald swallows hard and allows himself to be led, and the two of them trail towards the boat stairway. Panchito moves behind them, but stops when he hears the sound of little feet rushing behind him.

"Wait!" Huey manages, gasping. "Is everything okay?"

"Uncle Donald looks so sad," Dewey says, plaintive. "He hadn't been himself, something's wrong—"

"What's wrong with him?" Louie demands. But even the boy's acerbic nature fails him, and his voice is fearful. Panchito's chest twists in pity, but then he looks up. Della and Scrooge are watching, still frozen at the door, their expressions a mirror reflection.

"Ask your _ familia,_" Panchito says, burying his anger too deep for the children to see. "For now, Jose and I need to speak with your uncle alone, okay?"

"...okay," little Webby says dutifully, frowning beside her triplet counterparts, and Panchito tips his head and turns away, following his partners down into the privacy of the boat.

* * *

Louie watches as his uncle is swept into the arms of near strangers and feels nauseated. Uncle Donald looks...awful. He didn’t realize it before last night at dinner, but his uncle looks dead on his feet, and watching surprise crack the tired expression on his face as he’s ambushed by two upset Latiné birds, Louie realizes too that he hasn’t seen Uncle Donald smile since...since he first saw their mom on the beach of that island.

“They seem...upset,” Webby whispers, as they all strain to catch the sounds of the three talking on the houseboat from where they stand. Through some unspoken agreement, and Scrooge’s tap of his cane, they’d not come closer to infringe upon this—tense, private moment, but now, Louie was regretting it, because from here, he can see his Uncle Donald’s face fold up like he’s going to cry.

“What’s happening?” Dewey asks, horrified, seeing what he sees. “Are they just—happy to see each other? They look so—”

“Did something bad happen?” Huey asks. “Or something....sad?” 

“Kids,” Della says lowly. She looks briefly torn, as if uncertain of which words to say. “Panchito and José....they’ve been close to Donald for a very long time. Since before you guys were born. They’re just....”

“Angry,” Scrooge says. His tone is...cold, serious. If it weren't for the look on his face, Louie would think he was angry too. “Relieved, too." His voice drops to a mutter. "And scared out of their minds, probably."

“Angry?” Webby echoes.

“Scared about what?” Louie finds himself asking, but watching José reach for Donald’s face and hold his cheek in a hand, he thinks, _ oh. _“Oh,” he says. Scrooge dips his head.

“What?” Dewey demands. “Scared of what?”

“They’re scared because Uncle Donald was missing and they didn’t know,” Louie says flatly, heart twisting his chest. _ Should I have been scared too? _

“But...he’s okay,” Dewey says, confused and voice tight. The others look at him, a range of expressions on their faces. “Right?”

“Maybe he’s not,” Della whispers, watching her brother from afar. 

“_We _ didn’t know Uncle Donald was missing, and we didn’t—there’s gotta be something else, I mean—they’re all...they look like somebody _died__.” _Dewey’s voice snaps; he’s never been good at managing conflict, or intense emotion.

“Because they’re...” Della looks again like she’s summoning words. “Because they love your Uncle Donald very much. It’s...different for them.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t have been,” Scrooge says quietly, and Louie watches Della turn her head to stare at him, mouth twisted. Louie looks at his Uncle Scrooge and sees a rare face of regret. It sends his stomach swooping, and he turns back to look at his Uncle Donald, who’s suddenly looking over the shoulder of the bird hugging him and staring right at them, a guarded, raw expression on his face. He’s never seen his Uncle Donald look at him like that.

They’d hugged him, right? The thought is tugged suddenly forward from the sight of arms wrapped around his uncle’s shoulders. _ We hugged him, when we saw him? It’d been so long since saw him and—for weeks, he’d been just waiting for us to find him. I hugged him, right? _

Had he even said—

The parrot is taking his uncle by the arm and leading him deeper into the houseboat, and suddenly, he’s gripped with the sudden urge to make up what he’d forgotten to do weeks ago. He makes a noise and then he’s running, and he hears his brothers and Webby follow suit with barely a hairsbreadth between them, as if they’d all had the same urge at nearly the same time.

“Wait!” Huey cries, breath short. “Is everything okay?”

Clearly it’s not. “Uncle Donald looks so sad,” Dewey says, looking as upset as Louie feels. “We know he hasn’t been himself lately, but—Panchito, is something wrong?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Louie finds himself demanding of the rooster that stayed, feeling like his throat were closing in. It has to have something to do with Donald being missing but he doesn’t understand how or why, and the sight of his Uncle’s face—exhausted, glossy-eyed, muted when that was everything that Uncle Donald was not—haunts him.

Panchito's warm face closes off, unfamiliar stone. "Ask your _ familia," _he says, looking past them to where he knows Scrooge and Della stand watching. "For now, José and I need to speak your uncle alone, okay?"

The question brooks no argument. "Okay," Webby says quietly. It isn't. It's not okay, suddenly _ nothing _is okay.

The rooster straightens, beak pressed together, and turns away, following where Uncle Donald and José had gone down into the houseboat. Louie watches him go, feeling like he should be following too.

"This is bad. This feels _ bad,_" Huey whispers. "What do we do?"

"They asked for privacy," Webby says. "Maybe we should..."

"I've never seen Uncle Donald look like that before," Louie says. It's true, he hasn't. It hurts thinking about it, but hurts more than he doesn't understand it. He shoves his hands in his hoodie's front pocket, so no one can see his hands come together inside and squeeze in a painful grip. "He's not sick, but something is wrong and we deserve to know what."

"I don't get it," Dewey says, shaking his head. "Why are they so sad? Uncle Donald is okay."

"But he wasn't before!" Louie snaps. Webby and his brothers stare at him, a sad, worried row of mirrors. "He wasn't before, and he isn't now! There's something he's not telling us!"

"We've been in danger before and Uncle Donald didn't freak out, why is this time different?" Dewey mutters.

"Kids—"

"A temple infested with demons isn't the same thing as being captured or stranded," Webby says fretfully. "Maybe your uncle is having a hard time adjusting?"

"_Kids—" _

"That didn't look like _ adjusting," _ Louie says, voice picking up speed as he counts on his fingers. "He's quiet, he skips pizza, he hides in his houseboat all day and now his friends shows up and he’s like _ this!” _

“KIDS!”

“_What?” _Louie cries, eyes stinging. Della swallows, and circles behind them to put her hands on their shoulders.

“Come on,” she says, voice low and gentle. “We should go inside, okay? Donald and the guys, they asked for privacy, and...Uncle Scrooge and I, we have to talk about something. Why don’t you guys watch a movie in the living room, okay? Me and Mrs. B will set something up, we can make popcorn.” Louie opens his mouth immediately to protest as he’s led towards the house, but a shared look from his brothers silences him.

Urged back into the house, everything seems empty, like the sight of Donald and his friends in so much distress had sucked the entire mansion dry of sound. Louie, his brothers, and Webby sit silently as Della and Mrs. Beakley fuss over them, making them a big bowl of popcorn, and put on the newest superhero movie. Louie doesn’t see Scrooge once; his uncle is gone, and soon, after kissing them all on the foreheads, his mom is too, with Mrs. Beakley going with her.

The second they’ve left, they altogether jump from the couch, faces grim.

“Webby,” Louie says, because he knows she’s the one most likely to have a problem with what he’s knows they’re about to do.

“Louie,” she says sadly. “I...I care about your Uncle Donald too, but...”

“We need to know what’s going on,” Dewey says, with uncharacteristic seriousness. “If we get caught, we’ll take the blame, okay, but we need to know.”

Louie doesn’t care if Webby comes or not. He’s going to find out what’s wrong with Uncle Donald if it’s the last thing he does.

“I...” Webby’s chin wobbles briefly. “I know. I’ll help.” The boys sigh, and resolution falls.

“Okay. Game plan,” Dewey says. “We sneak to the boat and listen in. If we’re quiet, they won’t hear us.”

“We know all the places on the boat where you can hear stuff through the walls,” Huey adds. “We lived on that boat for like, eleven years, if we’re smart and avoid the squeaky planks, we won’t get caught.”

“We can’t listen in for too long,” Webby says warningly, “We gotta be back before your mom or Granny comes to check on us.”

“Then let’s _ go _already,” Louie hisses, and they all turn on their feet and run.

_ Uncle Donald will forgive us, _he thinks, as they hurry through the kitchen and back outside. _ He always does. _

But maybe, a little voice in his ear says, as they creep onboard the houseboat on tiptoe, that isn’t true.

The summer wind makes the wooden boat sigh and shift in the pool water below their feet. Soon they find themselves coming to a halt at the top of the stairs.

“Come on,” Dewey whispers. “Let’s go, don’t forget to skip the third step.”

“Wait,” Huey says, lifting a hand. “Do you hear that?”

Louie freezes, listening. From downstairs comes a sound drifting from the houseboat’s living room, muffled, but horribly, gut-wrenchingly familiar.

“Oh, no,” Webby whispers, and beside him, Dewey reaches desperately for his and Huey’s hands and squeezes so tight it hurts.

“Uncle Donald,” he whimpers, and Louie’s heart drops in his chest. Years and years ago, on his Uncle Donald’s birthday, he and his siblings had stood in the hallway at 4am with a handmade birthday card, ready to surprise his uncle with their brothers. He’d stopped with his hand halfway raised on his uncle’s bedroom door, halting at a sound, and peeked through the crack in the door to see his Uncle Donald awake, sitting in the dark, head in his hands. After freezing solid, he’d convinced his brothers to wait until morning, because everybody got to sleep in on their birthday, and Uncle Donald deserved to more than most.

He’d almost forgotten about that night, but he couldn’t forget the sound he heard, because he was hearing it right now, and it made him feel like drowning.

Downstairs, their Uncle Donald is crying.

* * *


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald talks to Panchito and José. 
> 
> The children overhear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the lovely comments and love.
> 
> the hiatus slowed me down a bit, but current events abroad have drawn me back to writing and my WIPs. hope you enjoy.
> 
> cw: panic attack in this chapter.

* * *

_ minutes earlier _

“Donal’. Come sit down, _ meu amor, _ right here.” José leads him gently to the couch in the houseboat’s living room; he moves about the space like it hasn’t been eleven years since he last step foot in it. Like they never even left. Donald’s throat constricts, and he allows himself to be guided and sat down in the middle of the worn tartan sofa. José takes the cushion to his right, but hugs his side without much appreciation for distance: he all but molds himself to Donald’s side, one hand still curled around his shoulder, the other carefully putting down his umbrella. Within moments, Panchito is shuffling down the stairs after them, his expression more serious than Donald had seen it in years and years, and it all feels _ so— _ Donald attempts to swallow, to speak and dispel the horrible feeling that he’s made the two of them _ unhappy. _But he stops, reconsidering the sense of that as Chito takes the empty spot to his left, folding directly into his side. There is a silence filled only by the reassuring heat of them beside him, and Chito lets out a slow sigh. A red-feathered hand moves to take his.

“Donald,” he says slowly. His exuberant voice has lost its vivacity, but not its tenderness. “If you could...please. Tell us what happened. We—” His voice goes a little rough, eyes flitting away from Donald to the parrot at his side. “We need to know what happened, _ mi corazon.” _

Donald feels his lungs ache in his chest at the endearment, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours and finally exhaled._ Tell us what happened. We need to know. _Vaguely, he becomes aware that his eyes are stinging, but he clears his throat, keeps two fingers curled around the reins of his control even as it slips ultimately from his grasp. José and Chito’s bodies seem to press closer to his side, reassuring, and he swallows hard.

“Okay,” he says. “I...I haven’t told them. The boys. They’re too young. Scrooge and Della...” He trails off, shakes his head. “I just...” He watches Panchito’s jaw shift, and feels Zé’s arm around his shoulder draw him a few inches closer. _ They know, _ he realizes, and his heart thuds hard in his chest with horrible fondness, because they always know. _ They know they didn’t ask. _

“Take your time.” Panchito gives him a small, bolstering smile. “We will wait, _ mi alma.” _ The term is even sappier than the one before it, and if Donald had been standing he would have bent over as if beneath a blow. As it is, his head ducks as his face crumples: at this moment, tender words hit _ hard, _ and Donald would be embarrassed about his own reaction to them if he hadn’t—if he hadn’t _ needed _to hear them so badly. 

“Donal’,” José murmurs, concerned, and he shakes his head, half at himself. He sniffs, seized with heartache and affection, and takes the hand José has wrapped around his shoulder and tugs it downwards, snug around his hips. Then he pulls Panchito close enough to press the edge of his beak to the bird’s cheek in a peck. It had been years since he’d touched and been touched this way, instinctive, unassuming—their meeting last month had left little time for reminiscing of this sort. And yet here they were, exactly as they left off all those years ago, with the same kindness and the same love as if it were never gone, and Donald is hideously grateful.

“I know,” he croaks out, leaning back. Panchito’s expression is unbearably soft, and Donald ducks his head again, so he doesn’t cry like an idiot just looking at him. “You guys...thank you. For being here.”

“There is nowhere we would rather be,” José says quietly, and Donald allows himself briefly to revel in the knowledge that it’s true. He should have written them. But he’d been so...Donald swallows as grey misery creeps once more into his skin, and closes his eyes to ground himself in the feeling of being held by those who love him.

He needs to tell them. If not because they asked, and he’d do anything for them, but because he needs to empty the ugliness that had been stealing his appetite, keeping him up at night, and stealing his voice for weeks.

“I _ was _ going on a cruise,” he says, and actually finds himself chuckling, weakly. It seems so ludicrous now. A _ cruise. _ Because the boys and Scrooge were making him _ molt. _ The stress of being with them had been hilariously minor in comparison to what came after. “I was _ stressed. _ ” He laughs again, a little bit longer, a little bit weaker. “I found it at the bus stop....the crash site. The spear of Selene.” His voice goes a little vacant in memory. “I couldn’t believe it. After all this time, dreaming we’d find it, thinking I’d never see it again, there it was. Buried in the dirt.” Just the passing recollection of how it felt to be standing there, looking at the missile he was certain had been his sister’s tomb, leaves him almost dizzy. “I ran over to it. Looking for her, like she was just gonna crawl out of it and start yelling at me like nothing ever changed. She was gone already, but I—I crawled into the thing screaming her name. Like an idiot. Must’ve touched something, the wrong button—my _ luck. _ The whole thing sealed up. Starting counting down numbers, shaking like a demon thing. I couldn’t get out, and it set itself up for launch to its previous destination.” Donald slumps against José’s shoulder and makes a disgusted noise. “I _ hate _space.”

He feels José chuckle beneath him. “_ Sim, _ we know.” They do. They’re the _ only _ones that do, that Donald ever told. The only ones left, anyway.

“Captured immediately once I crashed. Would’ve been embarrassing if I weren’t so rattled. Luckily that ship was full of oxygen gum or I wouldn’t have survived long enough to have even _ been _ captured.” Zé’s arms tighten around him and Donald’s mouth twists in guilt. Maybe he should try to downplay some of the peril a _ little. _There’s no point in causing them grief over everything. It doesn’t help anyone.

“Don’t hold back,” Panchito snaps lightly at him, bearing down over him. “I see that face, I know it. Don’t downplay anything. We want to know all about how you got captured like an idiot.”

Donald squawks out a laugh, squeezing Panchito’s hand. “They had _ spears!” _

“Oh, _ spears? _You let them capture you because they had giant toothpicks, I see, _ muy impresionante.” _

“Shut up,” Donald huffs, smiling for what feels like the first time in days. Chito could always make him smile, even when he felt farthest from it. “There was like, twenty of them! That lunatic Lunaris had already convinced everyone Della was a war criminal, and that our whole family was evil or whatever. They had a muzzle around my beak before I could even ask what was going on.” Panchito’s face goes stormy, and José’s arms tighten briefly around him; their disapproval makes his heart flutter. “They threw me in a cell for a few days. Wouldn’t have been able to escape if it weren’t for Penny.”

“Penny?” Zé questions in his ear.

“Friend of Della’s. Saved us all from dying later when Lunaris nearly blew us up. I’d say we’re about even though. To sneak me out she had to pretend she was beating me up out of...uhhh.._ loyalty?-- _and there wasn’t much ‘pretending’ in it.”

“I...do we like her?” Panchito asks, looking above Donald’s head to squint at José, and Donald feels Zé shrug. 

“She saved him twice,” he muses. “I suppose we do.”

“Alright, well,” Donald mumbles, feeling his cheeks burn somewhat at their assessment. “She got me out of my cell, we ended up stumbling onto Lunaris’s crazy plans to take over Earth. He’d been...studying us, all the way from the _ moon. _Our family. Had plans to take us all out, even the boys.” His heartbeat quickens in his chest just thinking about it, flashfire panic and rage. “Tried to get a message out to Scrooge, but it was too faint. Lunaris found us, took out Penny— dirty trick—and we scuffled. He was a half decent fighter,” Donald admits gruffly. “I wasn’t winning. But his base had this...rocket.”

“Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like ‘this rocket’,” Panchito says skeptically.

“Because it’s probably going to crash land on Earth with Donald inside it, isn’t it, _ meu amor?” _José’s voice is fond, exasperated, and tense all at once. “We don’t like the rocket.”

“It wasn’t exactly...tested,” Donald admits, wincing. “Lunaris figured I was dead, because nobody had survived using it. I almost didn’t. Felt like I was being flattened by a massive rolling pin as it broke the atmosphere. But...I _ had _ to warn Scrooge and the kids. Couldn’t let...” Donald sighs, eyes closing. “It didn’t matter anyways,” he says. He knows how tired and bitter his voice sounds, but he can’t help it. “Ended up on that... _ damn _island instead.”

“Oh, Donal’,” José says softly. A free hand sweeps across his brow, loving. “It mattered. Nothing on this earth or anywhere else could stop you from trying to save your _ filhos.” _

“Yeah.” Donald sighs heavily. He’s already exhausted by this, the reliving, the ghost of adrenaline and fear kicking around his empty stomach. 

“Do you want to take a break, _ quierdo?_” José asks, after a beat of silence. His hand moves in a calming rhythm up and down his waist.

If he does, he doubts he’ll want to continue. Getting captured was hardly the worst of it, and he dreads pushing it further. But...he knows better. They’ll push, and they’ll cluck at him, and he’ll break down. Might as well get it over with.

“No,” he says, exhausted. “Just tired.” He shifts in José’s arms, and Chito leans back on the couch, snuggling closer to him, getting comfortable. Donald sucks in a breath, throwing his mind back before he can get distracted by the incomparable feeling of being sandwiched between the two of them for the first time in a long time. “We were...ugh. Stupid island. Didn’t have any decent food. Only melons.” He pointedly doesn’t message the friend he made of one; that’s the last thing he wants to remember. _ Humiliating. _ And Panchito never liked Mickey, anyways. “I was pretty banged up from the crash, took me a while before I could try to even... _ think _ about getting off of it. Probably had a concussion. Broken arm and ribs for sure. Could walk around fine though. Finding fresh water was the worst of it. By the end of that month I was turning to salt water—I _ know, _ don’t look at me like that, I’m _ a sailor _ and _ I know _what salt water does, but I was desperate.” He swallows hard, licking his beak to chase away the memory of thirst. “I was...I don’t know. I think I lost my mind.”

“Donald...” Chito says.

“I did,” he says, shaking his head. “I went crazy. Not just ‘cause the salt water. I was so...” His voice breaks off once, snapping under emotion. “I was so scared that...” 

He feels that his eyes are burning, and he closes his eyes. Zé practically curls around him, both arms moving around his waist to squeeze him gently as he murmurs comforting words in his native language. 

“I was so scared that they were gonna hurt my boys,” Donald says, eyes filling with tears. “And I was _ trapped _ on that stupid island, _ useless. _ Lunaris promised me he was coming after them and I couldn’t do anything! I tried to call Scrooge with a radio and I could only hope he got my message, that they were ready for him. I kept thinking—” His voice disintegrates like burnt paper. “Every morning when I woke up..."I need to survive." To get home. I need to try something else. Every day I don’t try is a day where I might _ lose my babies."_ His hands curl to fists on his lap. "I was so angry and starving and I just—”

His voice snaps. He buries his face in his hands, the tears streaming out of his eyes. He feels hands on his shoulders, squeezing him tight. He crumples, allowing himself to be held, and cries in earnest, harder than he ever allowed himself to since the first night he got back home, when he’d collapsed in his bedroom, locked the door, and bawled his eyes out.

It’s a few minutes before he stops, and his throat is torn to shreds, and the hands around him are still there, still reassuring, still loving.

“Oh, Donal’,” José whispers. “We are so sorry.”

“We would have come,” Panchito says, agonized in his ear. “We would have come for you, I _ promise _you. We would never have stopped looking for you.”

“I know,” he chokes out. His heart breaks, halved. “When they found me on that island, they didn’t even know why I was there. The invasion had already started. Della had been home for weeks. They still thought I was on a _ damn cruise. Della. _ Was _ home. _ And the world was under siege by aliens, and they. Didn’t. Tell me.” His voice is shaking now, with pain and rage and heartache. “They found me by _ accident _ because they weren’t even _ looking for me. _ They _ didn’t even try.” _

“_Mierda,” _ Chito said thickly. “Oh, _ Donald.” _

“We’re so sorry, we’re so _ sorry, meu coração.” _

He’s still crying, and the tears are hot and anguished, burning with betrayal. He never...the worst part is that he hadn’t been _ surprised. _ The boys, he could and would always forgive. But Scrooge? _ Della? _How could they—

“Why didn’t they tell me?” he says brokenly through his hands. “That she was home? She was my sister. My _ sister. _ Alive after all these years. Didn’t they care I’d want to know? That I _ deserved _ to know?” His voice goes hoarse, harsh. “And when the invasion started? I _ deserved _ to--those were _ my boys, _ I needed to know they were safe, and—” He whimpers out a curse. “Didn’t they want to know _ I _was safe?”

“You deserved that and so much more, darling,” Zé says, and his voice is strained with tears. “What happened was unfair. Scrooge and Della know better. It wasn’t fair.”

“_No,_” he croaks. Hearing it confirmed is both wonderful and awful, making him shake. “It isn’t fair. But I can’t—I can’t look at my boys. They think I just had a crazy few weeks on a beautiful island. That I made friends with fish and stupid melons. They can’t--they don’t know that I—and I _ hate _ myself for it, but I...” He sniffs. “They act like nothing ever happened. All of them do. And I can’t stand it. I’ve wished Della was back home every day for years and now...” He hiccups a sob. “I can’t even talk to her. She sits where I used to sit at the table. Talks to the boys like she’s always been here. I was missing, _ dying _ on an island, and she just stepped in where I used to be. Like--Like—” His voice breaks off, losing all of its strength, unable to voice the horrible, unfair sentiment running through his mind. Della lost the entirety of her sons’ lives. He had had to take care of them, but he loved them with every fiber of his being, would give anything for them for the rest of his life, and she had lost that.

_ But that was her choice, _ a voice hissed in his mind, ugly and possessive and crude. _ Adventure was more important than the boys. It’s her fault she lost that time. She can’t act like they’re hers when it was me who took care of them, me who fed them, housed them, loved them. They’re mine, they’ve always been. _

But she came back. And they forgot about him, didn’t they? They’ve always wanted to meet their mother. Maybe he was always the substitute. Maybe the moment their mother came into their lives, they realized they didn’t need him at all. Maybe that was why they didn’t call, that was why they didn’t ask questions, didn’t look.

His heart is swallowed by despair. But when he thinks he’s going to sink in it, he feels hands, pulling him close. Chito has physically lifted him up into his lap, crushing him to his chest and tucking his head over his shoulder, and he lets himself sob as his hands stroke down his chest, as Zé murmurs kindness and love into the silence between his desperate breaths.

“We love you, we love you,” he says, over and over.

“We’re so glad you’re okay. So glad you’re home. So glad you’re safe. We’re so sorry. We love you, we love you.”

“We love you.”

Donald lets himself cry, lets himself be held, and lets himself fall apart.

* * *

The children look at each other, tears streaming from their eyes. 

“I--I can’t,” Webby manages, and dashes off. The boys look at each other, all silently weeping, and Louie is the first to break, shaking his head quickly and running after her.

Huey follows, pale and quivering, half-stumbling away with breath coming fast. Dewey can’t remember to move, can’t think, but his legs are suddenly moving for him, robotically driven, and he runs too.

<>

Webby finds her grandmother in the kitchen, leaping into her arms.

“_Granny,” _she wails, and Beakley freezes, alarm turning her muscles to iron as she readies for the threat that dared hurt her baby. But Webby doesn’t cry like this. She laughs when she’s scared. Now, her girl is crying like her heart’s been broken.

She sets Webby on the counter and holds her, hand moving reassuringly through her hair. She hasn't cried like this since she lost Lena to the Shadow Realm. What could have brought this on?

"Sweetheart," she croons, concerned, and Webby just cries.

<>

Huey doesn’t quite make it up the stairs. His eyes are so blurry with tears he doesn’t notice when he smacks into a tall form, and he stumbles backwards, sucking down air so desperately to cry there are dark spots flaring in his vision.

“Whoa!” he hears. “Little dude! Hey, are you okay?”

When he doesn’t say anything, panicked gasping punching out of him as tears spritz down his face, he hears rather than sees LP bend down to his level.

“Hey, hey,” LP says, his loud voice going soft. “What’s wrong, buddy?” When he doesn’t say anything, crying too hard and struggling to remember how to breathe, LP’s voice goes even quieter.

“Oh, man. Can--uh. Can I touch you, buddy?”

Huey nods frantically, his heart aching for the embrace of an adult, and LP reaches out his big arms and scoops him up like he weighs nothing. His soft jacket and big arms are warm, a powerful relief, but somehow the feeling of them just makes him cry harder.

“It’s okay, buddy,” LP whispers gently in his ear. “I need you to breathe, okay? Breathe, little Hue.” Hands stroke up and down his back. “Suck in a breath and hold it for a few seconds if you can. One, two, three. Then let it out, slow. One, two, three.”

He says it over and over until it sinks in, and Huey feels less like his skin is going to vibrate off his bones in terror, but his heart still has a massive hole in it. Tears flow out of his eyes, blinding him. His throat aches and his lungs spasm in sorrow.

“My friend Drake has panic attacks like this, buddy,” LP explains softly, still stroking his back. “I know it’s scary. You just gotta breathe through it. ...Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

Huey shakes his head, still crying, and thinks that his heart is breaking in two. LP holds him like he's a little boy, and wordlessly begins ascending the stairs.

<>

Dewey can’t find his mom. She’s not in her room, not in theirs, not downstairs, he can’t find her and he _ needs _her. Finally, finally, he breaks into the study, and he sees her, and doesn’t hesitate.

He throws himself at her. She squawks, catching him and stumbling back, and he clings to her, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Mom," he thinks he whimpers, numb and weak.

“Dewey! Hey, bud, what’s the matter?” She looks down, sees his face, and hers twists with worry. “Dewey? Honey, what is it?”

Dewey looks at her, eyes burning, and doesn’t say a word. He just buries his face in her neck, and he cries.

<>

Louie runs, but doesn’t know where to. He runs through the kitchen. He runs up the stairs, past a surprised LP, and he runs past his bedroom, past its loneliness. He needs--he needs—who he needs doesn’t want him, shouldn’t after all they did, after what _ he did, _but he just needs— 

He needs—

His feet keep moving, racing down the halls and slamming through the doors with tears pouring silently down his face, and races straight into Scrooge’s office.

“No running in the—Lad?”

He runs, and Scrooge doesn’t have time to stand before Louie is dashing around his desk to his chair.

“What in the--”

Louie runs, and there’s a second where he’s standing, heaving for air, tears dripping down his face as Scrooge looks at him with alarm, before he climbs directly into Scrooge’s lap, buries his face in his red jacket, and begins to sob, loudly and horribly. He cries like a little kid, stupid and useless, but he just can't stop.

_"Louie,” _ Scrooge says, horrified and confused, and for a moment attempts to pull him back to see his face, to talk to him. Louie resists, pressing his face into Scrooge's dampening jacket. “What the devil—what is it?”

“Uncle Scrooge,” he says, his voice a child’s high cry. He cringes internally at the sound of it, but he's lost control of his vocal chords. His chest _hurts. _He hurts, he hurts, and he wants Uncle Scrooge even though he's right here. _ “Uncle Scrooge." _

“What’s happened?” Scrooge demands, disturbed. Hesitatingly, his arms have wound round the boy, holding him as Louie clutches at him. "Laddie."

The boy shakes his head, shaking with sobs, and Scrooge says nothing. Louie cries harder, holding him like none of the children have ever held onto him, like no child has done in years. He's never seen the boy so distraught.

After a few moments, Scrooge moves a slow hand down the back of Louie’s hoodie. 

“...It’s alright,_ mo bhalach. _ It’s alright. I’m right here."

“It’s _ not,” _ Louie rages, voice cracked and hiccuping. “It’s _ not, _ it’s _ not okay."_ He sobs hard, heartsick. “We messed up. We messed up so _ bad."_

“Laddie...” Scrooge says in his ear, confused and worried.

“Uncle Donald,” Louie manages, and the name tears sobs out of him, dissolving him completely. _ He’ll never forgive me. I wouldn’t. I won’t. _

_ We hurt him, we hurt him. _

<>

“Mr. D?”

Scrooge looks up from the sobbing child in his lap to see Launchpad entering with a weeping Huey in his massive arms, more serious and concerned than he’s ever seen the man.

“Oh, no,” he says, and strokes the back of Louie’s head, dismayed.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” LP whispers, gently squeezing the boy in his arms. Scrooge doesn’t either. His heart yawns wider when Della and Beakley both trail in the door behind him, both holding their own crying children.

“Uncle Scrooge,” Della says plaintively. She looks around to see both of her other boys in pieces and her face goes pale with horror. “Oh, my babies. What’s _happened?”_

“I think...” Scrooge says, mind dawning with awful, sudden clarity. His heart plummets, and a monstrous thing looms in his chest like a lurking shadow creature. _ You knew it. You knew something was wrong, and you didn’t do a thing. _

_ This is on you. _

“I think we need to speak to Donald.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was very angsty but...necessary. 
> 
> i wanted the children to each run to someone who would understand them. webby obviously to her grammy, and dewey to della, and louie to scrooge. lp may be a bit of a curveball for huey, but i believe that he would actually be really lovely with a child who was upset, and huey is panicking, and i hc that drake probably has a lot of panic attacks, so i believe lp would be a good person to know how to help.

**Author's Note:**

> title is based on elton john because rocket reference is obvious, and sadness-in-space reference is also obvious. also, because i'm gay.
> 
> please point out any errors in portuguese or spanish if you see them! i'm not multilingual and have only the internet at my disposal for translations <3
> 
> hit me up on tumblr @mein-gottlieb if you have thoughts ;) always happy to hear them


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